The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems Part 15

Many days they sought and found not.

Then to Panther spoke the Raven: "She is in the Land of Spirits-- Surely in the Land of Spirits.

High at midnight I beheld her-- Like a flying star beheld her-- To the waves of Gitchee Gumee Downward flashing through the ether.

Thus she flashed that I might see her, See and know my mother's spirit; Thus she pointed to the waters, And beneath them lies her body, In the wigwam of the spirits-- In the lodge of Nebe-naw-baigs."[24]

Then spoke Panther to the Raven: "On the tall cliff by the waters Wait and watch with Waub-omee-mee.

If the Sea-Gull hear the wailing Of her infant she will answer."

On the tall cliff by the waters So the Raven watched and waited; All the day he watched and waited, But the hungry infant slumbered, Slumbered by the side of Raven, Till the pines' gigantic shadows Stretched and pointed to Waubu-nong[21]-- To the far-off land of Sunrise; Then the wee one woke and, famished, Made a long and piteous wailing.

From afar where sky and waters Meet in misty haze and mingle, Straight toward the rocky highland, Straight as flies the feathered arrow, Straight to Raven and the infant, Swiftly flew a snow-white sea-gull-- Flew and touched the earth a woman.

And behold, the long-lost mother Caught her wailing child and nursed her, Sang a lullaby and nursed her.

Thrice was wound a chain of silver Round her waist and strongly fastened.

Far away into the waters-- To the wigwam of the spirits-- To the lodge of Nebe-naw-baigs-- Stretched the magic chain of silver.

Spoke the mother to the Raven: "O my son--my brave young hunter, Feed my tender little orphan; Be a father to my orphan; Be a mother to my orphan-- For the crafty Red Fox robbed us-- Robbed the Sea-Gull of her husband, Robbed the infant of her mother.

From this cliff the treacherous woman Headlong into Gitchee Gumee Plunged the mother of my orphan.

Then a Nebe-naw-baig caught me-- Chief of all the Nebe-naw-baigs-- Took me to his shining wigwam, In the cavern of the waters, Deep beneath the mighty waters.

All below is burnished copper, All above is burnished silver Gemmed with amethyst and agates.

As his wife the Spirit holds me; By this silver chain he holds me.

"When my little one is famished, When with long and piteous wailing Cries the orphan for her mother, Hither bring her, O my Raven; I will hear her--I will answer.

Now the Nebe-naw-baig calls me-- Pulls the chain--I must obey him."

Thus she spoke, and in the twinkling Of a star the spirit-woman Changed into a snow-white sea-gull, Spread her wings and o'er the waters Swiftly flew and swiftly vanished.

Then in secret to the Panther Raven told his tale of wonder.

Sad and sullen was the hunter; Sorrow gnawed his heart like hunger; All the old love came upon him, And the new love was a hatred.

Hateful to his heart was Red Fox, But he kept from her the secret-- Kept his knowledge of the murder.

Vain was she and very haughty-- Oge-ma-kwa[25] of the wigwam.

All in vain her fond caresses On the Panther now she lavished; When she smiled his face was sullen, When she laughed he frowned upon her; In her net of raven tresses Now no more she held him tangled.

Now through all her fair disguises Panther saw an evil spirit, Saw the false heart of the woman.

On the tall cliff o'er the waters Raven sat with Waub-omee-mee, Sat and watched again and waited, Till the wee one, faint and famished, Made a long and piteous wailing.

Then again the snow-white Sea-Gull, From afar where sky and waters Meet in misty haze and mingle, Straight toward the rocky highland, Straight as flies the feathered arrow, Straight to Raven and the infant, With the silver chain around her, Flew and touched the earth a woman.

In her arms she caught her infant-- Caught the wailing Waub-omee-mee, Sang a lullaby and nursed her.

Sprang the Panther from the thicket-- Sprang and broke the chain of silver!

With his tomahawk he broke it.

Thus he freed the willing Sea-Gull-- From the Water-Spirit freed her, From the Chief of Nebe-naw-baigs.

Very angry was the Spirit; When he drew the chain of silver, Drew and found that it was broken, Found that he had lost the woman, Very angry was the Spirit.

Then he raged beneath the waters, Raged and smote the mighty waters, Till the big sea boiled and bubbled, Till the white-haired, bounding billows Roared around the rocky headlands, Rolled and roared upon the shingle.

To the wigwam happy Panther, As when first he wooed and won her Led his wife--as young and handsome.

For the waves of Gitchee Gumee Washed away the frost and wrinkles, And the spirits by their magic Made her young and fair forever.

In the wigwam sat the Red Fox, Sat and sang a song of triumph, For she little dreamed of danger, Till the haughty hunter entered, Followed by the happy mother, Holding in her arms her infant.

When the Red Fox saw the Sea-Gull-- Saw the dead a living woman, One wild cry she gave despairing, One wild cry as of a demon.

Up she sprang and from the wigwam To the tall cliff flew in terror; Frantic sprang upon the margin, Frantic plunged into the waters, Headlong plunged into the waters.

Dead she tossed upon the billows; For the Nebe-naw-baigs knew her, Knew the crafty, wicked woman, And they cast her from the waters, Spurned her from their shining wigwams; Far away upon the shingle With the roaring waves they cast her.

There upon her bloated body Fed the cawing crows and ravens, Fed the hungry wolves and foxes.

On the sh.o.r.e of Gitchee Gumee, Ever young and ever handsome, Long and happy lived the Sea-Gull, Long and happy with the Panther.

Evermore the happy hunter Loved the mother of his children.

Like a red star many winters Blazed their lodge-fire on the sea-sh.o.r.e.

O'er the Bridge of Souls[26] together Walked the Sea-Gull and the Panther.

To the far-off Sunny Islands-- To the Summer-Land of Spirits, Sea-Gull journeyed with her husband-- Where no more the happy hunter Feels the fangs of frost or famine, Or the keen blasts of Kewaydin, Where no pain or sorrow enters, And no crafty, wicked woman.

There she rules his lodge forever, And the twain are very happy, On the far-off Sunny Islands, In the Summer-Land of Spirits.

On the rocks of Gitchee Gumee-- On the Pictured Rocks--the legend Long ago was traced and written, Pictured by the Water-Spirits; But the storms of many winters Have bedimmed the pictured story, So that none can read the legend But the Jossakeeds,[27] the prophets.

POETRY.

I had rather write one word upon the rock Of ages than ten thousand in the sand.

The rock of ages! lo I cannot reach Its lofty shoulders with my puny hand: I can but touch the sands about its feet.

Yea, I have painted pictures for the blind, And sung my sweetest songs to ears of stone.

What matter if the dust of ages drift Five fathoms deep above my grave unknown, For I have sung and loved the songs I sung.

Who sings for fame the Muses may disown; Who sings for gold will sing an idle song; But he who sings because sweet music springs Unbidden from his heart and warbles long, May haply touch another heart unknown.

There is sweeter poetry in the hearts of men Than ever poet wrote or minstrel sung; For words are clumsy wings for burning thought.

The full heart falters on the stammering tongue, And silence is more eloquent than song When tender souls are wrung by grief or shameful wrong.

The grandest poem is G.o.d's Universe: In measured rhythm the planets whirl their course: Rhythm swells and throbs in every sun and star, In mighty ocean's organ-peals and roar, In billows bounding on the harbor-bar, In the blue surf that rolls upon the sh.o.r.e, In the low zephyr's sigh, the tempest's sob, In the rain's patter and the thunder's roar; Aye, in the awful earthquake's shuddering throb, When old Earth cracks her bones and trembles to her core.

I hear a piper piping on a reed To listening flocks of sheep and bearded goats; I hear the larks shrill-warbling o'er the mead Their silver sonnets from their golden throats; And in my boyhood's clover-fields I hear The twittering swallows and the hum of bees.

Ah, sweeter to my heart and to my ear Than any idyl poet ever sung, The low, sweet music of their melodies; Because I listened when my soul was young, In those dear meadows under maple trees.

My heart they molded when its clay was moist, And all my life the hum of honey-bees Hath waked in me a spirit that rejoiced, And touched the trembling chords of tenderest memories.

I hear loud voices and a clamorous throng With braying bugles and with bragging drums-- Bards and bardies laboring at a song.

One lifts his locks, above the rest preferred, And to the buzzing flies of fashion thrums A banjo. Lo him follow all the herd.

When Nero's wife put on her auburn wig, And at the Coliseum showed her head, The hair of every dame in Rome turned red; When Nero fiddled all Rome danced a jig.

Novelty sets the gabbling geese agape, And fickle fashion follows like an ape.

Aye, bra.s.s is plenty; gold is scarce and dear; Crystals abound, but diamonds still are rare.

Is this the golden age, or the age of gold?

Lo by the page or column fame is sold.

Hear the big journal braying like an a.s.s; Behold the brazen statesmen as they pa.s.s; See dapper poets hurrying for their dimes With hasty verses hammered out in rhymes: The Muses whisper--'"Tis the age of bra.s.s."

Workmen are plenty, but the masters few-- Fewer to-day than in the days of old.

Rare blue-eyed pansies peeping pearled with dew, And lilies lifting up their heads of gold, Among the gaudy c.o.c.ks...o...b.. I behold, And here and there a lotus in the shade; And under English oaks a rose that ne'er will fade.

Fair barks that flutter in the sun your sails, Piping anon to gay and tented sh.o.r.es Sweet music and low laughter, it is well Ye hug the haven when the tempest roars, For only stalwart ships of oak or steel May dare the deep and breast the billowy sea When sweeps the thunder-voiced, dark hurricane, And the mad ocean shakes his s.h.a.ggy mane, And roars through all his grim and vast immensity.

The stars of heaven shine not till it is dark.

Seven cities strove for Homer's bones, 'tis said, "Through which the living Homer begged for bread."

When in their coffins they lay dumb and stark Shakespeare began to live, Dante to sing, And Poe's sweet lute began its werbelling.

Rear monuments of fame or flattery-- Think ye their sleeping souls are made aware?

Heap o'er their heads sweet praise or calumny-- Think ye their moldering ashes hear or care?

Nay, praise and fame are by the living sought; But he is wise who scorns their flattery, And who escapes the tongue of calumny May count himself an angel or a naught: Lo over Byron's grave a maggot writhes distraught.

Genius is patience, labor and good sense.

Steel and the mind grow bright by frequent use; In rest they rust. A goodly recompense Comes from hard toil, but not from its abuse.

The slave, the idler, are alike unblessed; Aye, in loved labor only is there rest.

But he will read and range and rhyme in vain Who hath no dust of diamonds in his brain; And untaught genius is a gem undressed.